Diluted
by ncfan
Summary: Maglor's untapped skill in magic.


I own nothing.

* * *

When he was a child, it was believed that Makalaurë would become a prodigious magic-user, if he so wished.

His voice was golden. His voice held enormous power in its timbre. This was obvious from the first time he ever sang. Fëanáro had been proud of how quickly his second son learned to speak, indeed, the earliest of all his children to learn, but everyone had been stunned when they first heard him sing. He was six months old, doing nothing more than parroting the words of a song Indis was half-muttering while Fëanáro and his family visited with Finwë. Makalaurë's voice was as of yet unschooled, and he could indeed do nothing more than parrot Indis's words, but the power and the beauty of his voice was self-evident.

The Eldar wove magic with the power of their voice, their songs, and as Makalaurë grew, his love for music became in some ways as all-consuming as his father's passion for smithing. He learned to play the harp, to compose music of his own, and to sing with the best of them. He was, indeed, considered 'the best of them'; it was commonly held among the Noldor, and all among the Vanyar and the Falmari who heard him sing, that Makalaurë's voice had no equal. Why should he not learn to use magic?

Makalaurë did have some fascination for magic. He would put power in his voice and watch as those who listened to his songs would light up in joy or break down and weep in their sorrow. When he sang, he could move anyone who listened. Makalaurë enjoyed having that effect on people. Perhaps he should have enjoyed it for a purpose, rather than simply enjoying being able to move anyone to tears for its own sake, but he was young yet, and there was as of yet no _need _for magic in his life.

He noticed also that, when he truly concentrated, he could conjure images as he sang. They were never clear, these images; they appeared as shadows or as would fleeting, wavering reflections on water, if they could be projected in the air and made to dance about. He conjured these images to the delight of his younger brothers and cousins, to make them laugh and smile.

Surely that could not be it. Surely that could not be all of magic. Makalaurë wished to know more.

Of course, Makalaurë procured books on the subject. He lived in Tirion, a city where books on virtually any subject could be found if you looked long enough. He studied the theory of magic in his spare time, and from this grew his frustration, and his desire to learn more.

He had power, but he could not shape it. He could sing with power in his voice, but it was raw and unfocused. All Makalaurë could do was affect the emotions of others around him. Power crackled at his fingertips, and he could not for the life of him work out how he was supposed to use it.

If Makalaurë wished to learn more about magic, if he wished to learn how to use it properly, he would have to go to Taniquetil, and learn from the Vanyar. In the art of magic, the Noldor had no masters; they considered it a soft art, too soft for their tastes, though for history's sake they would record its uses. The Falmari did not have much in the way of magic either, at least not magic that the children of Aman considered acceptable. The Vanyar, however, saw worth in magic, and its maters were revered among that people.

However, Makalaurë did not journey to Taniquetil. Fëanáro would not permit it, would not allow his second-born, still a child at the time, to leave home for so long a time. For years afterwards, Makalaurë would shudder at the memory of the fear in his father's eyes at the thought of his leaving for maybe years on end. The guilt he felt at sparking that fear was enough to keep him from ever asking again.

The years passed, slowly in the manner of Aman. Makalaurë put dreams of magic away as best he could. He told himself that he did not regret losing the chance to learn, that he did not regret never journeying to Taniquetil as an adult to learn from the Vanyarin masters. When Findaráto and Artanis _did_ go to Taniquetil to study magic, he told himself that he was _not _envious of them, not at all.

There was still power in his voice, in his words. But at times it felt like nothing greater than the forceful way Tyelkormo spoke when he was trying to persuade others, and the power in Makalaurë's voice was all he had left of magic. He had put aside everything else, had forgotten most of what he learned, could no longer conjure even the weakest of images. All of his power was rooted in his voice, but there it stayed, unwilling to be channeled.

At times, he felt a sense of loss.

"…You wanted to learn magic?"

Curufinwë did not bother to hide his skepticism; odd, for him, but where Formenos made some become like parodies of themselves, in some it drew out the true self, regardless of how ugly or beautiful it was. Makalaurë wondered sometimes if this had anything to do with Formenos's greater distance from the Trees, in relation to Tirion.

The second Mingling of the Lights was drawing to a close, leaving Formenos dim and dusky, almost as dark as Alqualondë during Telperion's light. It had rained recently; water beads glistened on the leaves of trees in the unkempt yard. Makalaurë and Curufinwë sat on the back stoop of the house they shared with their family in exile, the latter holding his three-month-old son on his lap.

"It was before you were born," Makalaurë supplied as explanation. He twirled a sprig of holly between his fingers absently. "Elemmírë suggested it after hearing me sing a few times. She thought that I had a talent that needed to be developed."

Curufinwë snorted. "_Of course_ it was a Vanya who put this idea into your head." He reached forwards to gently take a golden trinket Telperinquar was playing with out of the boy's hands; he had been starting to run his four teeth over it speculatively.

Makalaurë would have liked to say that he had had the idea 'in his head' since before he met Elemmírë, but he found that he did not have the energy to make a retort. "…I feel as though I missed an opportunity," he said instead. Makalaurë lifted his gaze, trying to catch sight of stars through the clouds, and failed.

"You haven't missed anything," Curufinwë retorted with a laugh, drawing Makalaurë's attention back to him. It wasn't a particularly kind laugh, but Makalaurë heard the echo of his own laugh in its depths. He wasn't sure he liked that; he tried to imagine Telperinquar with such a laugh. "Magic is an art for sophists and acolytes with too much time on their hands."

At this, Makalaurë raised an eyebrow. "And the charms you and Father place on the things you've forged to keep them from breaking…"

Curufinwë's face colored. "That's different."

"I do not see how."

To Makalaurë's surprise, Curufinwë laughed again. This time, it was a sharp, barking laugh, strongly reminiscent of Tyelkormo, but there was no unkindness there. "Your loss, I suppose."

Curufinwë turned Telperinquar about so that he could hold him close, all the sharpness vanishing from his expression as the boy wrapped his tiny hand around one of his fingers. Makalaurë leaned over and stroked his nephew's hair absently. "There is value in magic, Curvo," Makalaurë murmured. "Even if you can not see it."

"What value could there possibly be, if I _can not_ see it?"

Makalaurë remembered how Curufinwë would laugh as a child when he conjured his shadows and watery images to play with him. But with Telperinquar so close he did not wish to raise a fuss, so he said nothing.

-0-0-0-

He was looking for Curufin.

Winters in Himring were not all that different from what winters in the Gap had been like; Himring was not any further north than the Gap had been, after all. But Maglor did not care for winter, much less winters in which they had to shovel snowdrifts away from the streets of the citadel. He had only thought he knew harsh winters in Eldamar; this was without equal. Maglor kept his cloak wrapped close about himself as he wandered about the exterior of Maedhros's halls, looking for Curufin.

Celegorm had fled south to Amon Ereb in the summer. He could not withstand Maedhros's rage over the debacle with Lúthien. He claimed that he felt it would be better for him to travel south to help Amrod, Amras, Caranthir and his wife with the fortifications of Amon Ereb. Maedhros retorted that Thingol and Orodreth both probably preferred that he and Curufin stay where Maedhros could keep a weathered eye on them, but did not force him to stay. If anything, he seemed happy to watch him go. Well, perhaps not happy so much as relieved.

Since Celegorm left, Curufin had barely spoken to anyone. The only time his brothers saw him was when he came down for meals. He was quiet, withdrawn, unsmiling, a shadow of his former self. But when he did not come down for dinner one day, Maedhros and Maglor could not help but notice.

Himself, Maglor found that he could muster no fury with either of them, no matter how despicably they had behaved. Finrod was dead and Doriath and Nargothrond were both irrevocably set against the House of Fëanáro, but Maglor could muster no fury against Celegorm or Curufin for their actions. All he felt was a vague sense of disgust—they had not even stopped when Celebrimbor repudiated his father and his house in one fell swoop, over his own disgust with his father's actions!

(And somehow, that disgust always ended up rebounding upon himself. Half of the time, Maglor did not even know why he was disgusted with himself. All he knew was that he felt it following him like a shadow, unwilling to ever leave him be. When he felt this way, he tried to shake off any disgust he might feel with his brothers.)

Maglor found Curufin sitting in a shadowed alcove facing south, sheltered from the wind. There was a mostly-empty bottle in his brother's hand; Curufin's eyes were perhaps a shade dimmer than usual. Maglor looked at him and felt his heart sink.

Curufin straightened when he saw Maglor, trying to give a semblance of sobriety that was shattered by the slur of his voice as he greeted him. "Kano."

"We were wondering where you were," Maglor said quietly, trying to guess just how drunk Curufin was. This wasn't like him. He drank, certainly, but Maglor could count on one hand the number of times Curufin had ever gotten drunk. The last time had been at his wedding in Formenos, when the Trees still shone and the sons of Fëanor did not count themselves Exiles.

"Were you?" In spite of the slur, there was no mistaking the note of skepticism in Curufin's voice. He didn't meet Maglor's gaze.

Pulling his cloak closer about his shoulders, Maglor took a seat next to Curufin in the alcove. "May I ask what you are doing out here—besides drinking yourself into a stupor," Maglor added sharply, looking askance at the bottle grasped in Curufin's hand.

"Thinking," Curufin replied vaguely, and Maglor found that he did not have the energy to pry. Perhaps Maedhros would have, but Maedhros was not here.

The wind howled over the hills surrounding Himring and the plains to the south. Maglor looked at Curufin's bare hands, wondering how he could sit there without feeling the cold, knowing that it couldn't possibly be the ale. The cold was too piercing, too all-encompassing.

"…I…" Maglor turned his gaze back to Curufin when he began to speak. "…I was thinking about our parents." There was something oddly brittle about his voice. "…And Telpalma, and Findaráto." There was a thick, uncomfortable silence, before he added, "…and Telpe. It… It occurred to me that I can't remember what any of them look like."

"Perhaps if you had not drank yourself into a stupor, you would," Maglor snapped, all the while feeling a cold pit in his stomach that had nothing to do with the winter's chill.

Curufin glared fiercely at him, his eyes clearing. "Understand me!" he said hotly. Maglor could not help but notice the way his voice shook. "I can hear their voices as though they stand beside me, as though they have never left. Such things they say," he muttered, and there was for a moment a flash of something strange and secret in his eyes. "But I can not remember their faces. No matter how I try, I can not remember."

Suddenly, Maglor had some idea of what Curufin meant. Any disgust remaining in him left, replaced with empty grief.

Song and magic were commonly held as instruments of power. Lúthien was renowned for throwing down Sauron's fortress on Tol Sirion with a song of power; in that tale, everyone saw magic's power, saw music's power. However, most forget that song and magic were also instruments of memory. Maglor wondered why that was. Was it because they were so obviously used to record history, songs being the Eldar's primary vehicle of recollection, and magic so irrevocably tied to music?

_No, that's not the point._

Learning to be empathetic had been a hard lesson, but one worth learning. Through cousins' grief and anger, through watching Maedhros struggle to grow accustomed to the loss of his right hand, through learning how to lead and rule, he had learned to feel the weight of others' grief. He had manipulated his audience when he sang, had used their tears as a test to see how good his music was, but now, he actually _understood_, inside, what they had felt to go along with their tears. Maglor through he knew what Curufin wanted.

_Before betrayal and separation…_

Curufin sat leaning against the wall, silent. Maglor put a hand on his shoulder, and Curufin didn't shake him off.

Maglor had no magic left in him; he was diminished. He could not conjure images as he had during the golden Noontide of Valinor. He had not tried to move an audience to tears with music in centuries; in Beleriand, he had put his harp away and picked up his sword instead.

It occurred to him, in this moment, that he could sing, that he could weave a song to help his brother remember. But for the life of him, Maglor could not think of a single note to sing.

* * *

Makalaurë, Kano—Maglor  
Fëanáro—Fëanor  
Findaráto—Finrod  
Artanis—Galadriel  
Tyelkormo—Celegorm  
Curufinwë, Curvo—Curufin  
Telperinquar, Telpe—Celebrimbor


End file.
